


Keep the Home Fires Burning

by TayBartlett9000



Category: Blackadder
Genre: "Keep the Home Fires Burrning" (World War 1 song), "Your king and country needs you" World War 1 song, August 4th 1914, Britain's declaration of war, Captain Blackadder (mentioned), Gen, Hope, War, World War I, forshadowing, patriotic duty, pre-blackadder series four, prime minister Asquith (mentioned), promises of a short war, supposed glory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 06:59:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10634682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TayBartlett9000/pseuds/TayBartlett9000
Summary: In the middle of the glorious summer of 1914, Britain declared war on Germany. George decides to sign up and fulfil his  patriotic duty amidst a  nigheve sense  of glory and a tide of promises of a  short and victorious war. Pre-blackadder series four.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Blackadder or the World War 1 song "Keep the Home Fires Burning."

Keep the Home Fires Burning.

By Taylor Bartlett.

 

“Overseas there came a pleading,

Help  a nation in distress,

and we gave our glorious  laddies,

honour   bade us do no less.

For no   gallant son of freedom,

To no tyrant’s yoke should bend,

 And a noble heart must answer,

To the sacred call of friend.”

When George heard the news that Britain was preparing to send troops forth into Belgium to repel the German enemies, his fate seemed to have been sealed.

Three years later, as he stood poised on the threshold of his own fear, readying with his fellow soldiers to go over the top into No Man’s Land, he would recall his fateful decision to whole heartedly join the tide of men willing to fight for King and country. Only George could have told us of his thoughts, of whether or not he regretted his decision to join the army after hearing the news during that glorious summer in 1914.

In keeping with the pattern of that summer, the morning of August the fourth 1914 dawned bright, sunny and scorching hot. As George opened his eyes on the new day, he could not have possibly predicted that this morning would be the last that he would spend in his own bed.

“Have you heard the news, son?” his mother asked as he marched down the long flight of stairs to the kitchen of his grand old Victorian house, “Britain’s gone to war with Germany.”

It took George a moment to process this piece of startling information as he stood in the middle of the room, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes.  “What did you say, mother?”  He asked sleepily, taking a seat at the scrubbed wooden table and leaning his elbows upon it.

His mother turned to him from the sink and gave him a somber look that George had rarely seen upon her face. “I said Britain has gone to war with Germany. Prime   Minister Asquith has issued a call to all men who are of age to go and fight for King and country. It’s here in the newspaper.”

She slid a copy of the morning’s newspaper across the table towards her son, who picked it up curiously, unsure of whether or not he wanted to read what was inside. Upon opening it, George saw the headline written in bold. “Your King and Country needs you!” screamed the headline.  The article was written below. He read it through three times in quick succession,   mentally committing the words of the article to memory.  The prime minister of his noble country was calling for help from the four corners of Britain. He was looking for men who would be willing to join the war effort and was painting a glorious picture of heroism and bravery, something that did not fail to strike into the very soul of the young man who now sat reading those well chosen words.

“Wow,” he said in stunned amazement, looking up and glancing across the kitchen at his mother. “That certainly seems like a   terrible situation for our noble King to be placed in.”

“It certainly is.” His mother turned once more to face her son, a stern look now plastered across those lovely features. “You will be joining up of course?” she asked, somehow leaving no room for debate in her words. She eyed George with a strange immoveable certainty that fazed him not at all at the time, but did later on. She knew what she wanted, and more or less expected her only son to perform has patriotic duties down to the last article. She had raised him well after all. Her son would do no less.

George nodded with an enthusiasm that could not have been dampened on that morning and said with eager anticipation, “I will indeed, mother. I see it as my duty. My King needs me after all. I will join up today and will hopefully be sent off to Belgium of France this evening. I will just have a spot of breakfast and then head off to the town hall.”

“That’s my boy,” his mother said proudly, bestowing a smile upon her son.

“But... but what if you get killed?”

Both George and his mother looked round as the small and rather scared voice piped up from the other end of the table. The little dark haired girl glanced from her mother to her older brother, fear evident on her young face. The worry shone clearly through her blue eyes as she became fixated upon the face of George, who gave her a swift and reassuring smile.

“Don’t worry, Celia,” he told her consolingly, reaching across to cover her small hand with his own and squeezing it gently, “it says in the papers that the war will surely be over by Christmas. I’ll be home in four months or so. Then we can celebrate together. You’ll be able to tell all of your friends that your brother is a hero. You would like that, wouldn’t you?”

His little sister’s eyes still held traces of the fear that no amount of consolation could suppress, but she smiled in spite of herself. “Ok,” she said quietly, looking out of the window to hide her uncertainty, “if you say so, George.”

The rest of that frantically busy morning passed by in a blur for George as he prepared to take the shilling for his King and for Britain. It was an easy process. He signed up, received his shilling’s reward and hurried on homeward to pack what little possessions he needed for the journey. As he passed through the streets of Cambridge, people cheered and clapped, haling him as the hero that the papers had proclaimed the willing soldiers to be. All around him, men and women were gossiping about the war and what a conflict with Germany would mean for Britain. Nobody was much troubled by the war declaration though. “Oh well,” many were saying happily, “the war will be over by Christmas.”

The ride to the train station went by in a similar blur as George sat in the back of the horse driven cart with Celia and his mother, silently staring out of the window.  The sun shone down from the sapphire sky in perfect symmetry with his current mood.

His mother on the other hand was thinking something quite apart from the glorious joy being experienced by her son. She stared directly ahead of her as the cart neared the train station, thinking of the lonely wait that she would have to endure once her only son went over to Belgium. He had never been away from home before and he would soon be miles away in another country, unable to speak to her every day and unable to return home to his comfortable bed with its soft feather pillow. The idea was making her inwardly regret the forceful way in which she had bade her son to join up. But of course, she said none of this out loud.

“Let no tears add to their hardship,” she told herself as the cart stopped at the station.

George clambered out first, looking around him. He could see many men milling around the bustling station, none of them entirely sure what to do. One man in particular attracted George’s attention. He was a tallish man, wearing a uniform that told George that his name was Captain Blackadder. He looked so splendid and noble to George’s inexperienced eye as he stood there in his pristine soldier’s uniform.

“Goodbye then, mother,” George said quietly after a long pause. He turned to his mother and embraced her, knowing that it would be the last time he would see her in a while, though he did not know precisely how long.

 He then turned to Celia, who had tears in her eyes as she embraced her older brother. He hugged her back tightly as the little girl cried on his shoulder. “Don’t you worry little sister,” he said soothingly, gently freeing himself from her vice-like grip. He smiled kindly at her and tried his best to cheer her up. “I’ll soon be back home again. Son, we will be celebrating a hero’s return. I’ll write to you every week. I won’t forget.”

As George walked onto the platform, he basked in the glory that was reflected in the head and heart of every man around him. He took one last lingering look at Cambridge, wondering when he would see it again. George could not have predicted that he would never see Cambridge again, nor would he ever see his mother and sister’s faces. He had no way of knowing that he would die before the war ended. He also had no possibility of knowing that the war would not end by Christmas of 1914. The war would in fact last four years. Four extremely bloody and violent years. Ten percent of the world’s population would meet their deaths, including George and the man whom had caught his eye at the station. The Great War would bring plenty of heroism. But it would bring none of the glory that had been promised to the soldiers by the prime minister and the public. Instead, they would experience only the hardship and brutality of World war 1.

But on that glorious day in August 1914, none of these facts crossed George’s mind as the train pulled away. He waved at Celia and his mother who waved back, Celia still crying silently as she waved frantically at George’s rapidly receding face.

On the platform, George’s mother was standing with the other women who were saying a heart felt goodbye to their sons, brothers, fathers and friends who were setting out on the first leg of their journey to France. As she turned away, George’s mother took Celia’s hand and led her away from the station, fairly safe in the knowledge that her beloved son would return safely in four months time, not at all aware that he would not return at all.

Around her, she heard the voices of the other women, some of them singing snatches of a song that would come to mean a lot to her in the months and years that would follow. She herself would come to sing this particular song every day, just to keep her own hopes and spirits alive. It was a song that would keep up the spirits of everyone as they waited for their men to return and it was a song that she hummed as she climbed back into the horse drawn cart with her daughter next to her on the seat, her head resting on her shoulder.

“Keep the Home Fires burning,

While your hearts  are yearning,

Though your lads are  far away,

They dream of home.

There’s a silver lining,

Through the dark clouds shining,

Turn the dark clouds inside out,

Till the boys come home.”

 


End file.
